Run...
Run from what? Run from whom? Run where?
Rebecca scrutinized the number on the iPhone. It meant nothing to her. The most likely source of the message was Moscow Center or the Washingtonrezidentura. Or perhaps, she thought, it was a trick of some sort. A deception. Only a spy would run.
She frowned at the screen for the sake of the cameras that were no doubt watching her and with the press of a deceptive icon consigned her original report to digital dust. It was gone, it had never existed. Then, with the press of a second false icon, the application itself vanished. She now had no evidence of treason on her phone or among her possessions, only the gun she had stuffed into her handbag before leaving her house. Suddenly, she was glad she had it.
Run...
How long had they known? And howmuchdid they know? Did they know only that she was a spy for Moscow Center? Or did they also know she had been born and bred to be a spy, that she was Kim Philby’s daughter and Sasha’s life’s work? She thought of Graham’s unorthodox visit to her house the night before, and the alarming news that Downing Street intended to sever diplomatic ties with Moscow. It was a lie, she thought, designed to trick her into making contact with her handlers. There was no plan to break relations with Moscow, and no meeting scheduled at Langley. She suspected, however, that there was indeed a plane waiting at Dulles International Airport—a plane that would take her back to London, where she would be within the grasp of the British legal system.
Run...
Not yet, she thought. Not without a plan. She had to react methodically, the way her father had in 1951, when he learned that Guy Burgess and Donald Maclean had defected to the Soviet Union, leaving him dangerously exposed. He had driven his motorcar into the Maryland countryside and buried his miniature KGB camera and film.Down by the river near Swainson Island, at the base of an enormous sycamore tree...Rebecca’s car, however, was of no use to her. Surely, it had been fitted with a tracking beacon. That would explain why she hadn’t spotted any surveillance teams.
In order to make her escape—torun—Rebecca would need a different car and access to an uncompromised phone. Sasha had assured her that, in the event of an emergency, he would be able to whisk her to Moscow, the way Yuri Modin had plucked her father from Beirut. Rebecca had been given a number to call inside the Russian Embassy, and a code word that would tell the person at the other end of the line that she was in trouble. The word was “Vrej.” It was the name of an old restaurant in the Armenian quarter of Beirut.
But first she had to extricate herself from the drop site. She assumed that several of the people seated around her were either British, American, or even Israeli agents. Calmly, she slipped her iPhone into her handbag and, rising, dropped her coffee cup through the circular hole in the condiment station. The doorway leading to Wisconsin Avenue was to her right. She turned to the left instead and headed toward the rear seating area of the café. No one looked at her. No one dared.
71
Chesapeake Street, Washington
Approximately three miles to the north, at the Chesapeake Street command post, Gabriel watched with rising alarm as Rebecca Manning passed through the camera feed of Ilan’s phone.
“What just happened?”
“She didn’t transmit her report,” said Graham Seymour.
“Yes, I know. But why not?”
“Something must have spooked her.”
Gabriel looked at Yaakov Rossman. “Where is she now?”
Yaakov typed the query into his laptop. Mikhail answered within seconds. Rebecca Manning was in the restroom.
“Doing what?” asked Gabriel.
“Use your imagination, boss.”
“I am.” Thirty additional seconds passed with no sign of her. “I have a bad feeling, Graham.”
“What do you want to do about it?”
“You have all the proof you need.”
“That’s debatable, but I’m still listening.”
“Tell her you’ve changed your mind about the meeting at Langley. Tell her you want her to be there after all. That should get her attention.”
“And then what?”
“Instruct her to meet you at the embassy.” Gabriel paused, then added, “And then take her into custody the second her foot touches British soil.”
Seymour typed the message into his BlackBerry and sent it. Fifteen seconds later the device chimed with a response.
“She’s on her way.”
